


hopes and expectations (black holes and revelations)

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Eventual Space Husbands, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Space Opera, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-04 18:27:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15153047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tyler is trying not to lose his ship and Jamie needs a ship to fix.(Space AU)





	1. Form 341

                                                

* * *

 

He doesn’t fucking _need_ a Mechanic, is the thing. Maybe some Riders do, but Tyler doesn’t. When his baby purrs a certain way, or lights start blinking out of order, or a fucking piece falls out, or whatever, Tyler knows what it means and how to fix it, because he’s got the _experience_ , because it’s _his_ ship. Not because he took some pussy ass Engineer course and played with the academy’s pussy ass toys in the safety of the pussy ass Ground Level. Tyler’s never known a Mechanic who isn’t 1) a massive fucking coward 2) a presumptuous piece of shit who thinks their Cogwheel Badge gives them authority to tell Tyler how to operate his baby.

Plus, getting a Mechanic would mean getting the Mechanic’s _team_. Being stuck with an M Team is about the most insulting thing that can happen to a Rider. That’s where the deadbeats go. The one’s who aren’t good enough to keep up with their own R’s. Tyler’s dad already barely fucking talks to him after everything that happened.

So, thanks, but no, thanks. The League can suck his dick and shove their _Final Warning To Submit Form 341_ up their bureaucratic ass.

Tyler stares at his ship’s info screen, angrily chewing a piece of gum who’s lost its flavor like, an hour ago. They’re threatening to revoke his flying license, reassign him to Corporate Combat, which basically means he’d be put behind a desk with a headpiece and a microphone, assisting Rider’s from the ground, like a punk. Objectively, not flying at all sounds worse than flying under a cogger’s banner, but— _Jesus_. Talk about sword and wall.

He opens _Form 341_ for the third consecutive time, before immediately closing it again. “Fuckin’ sons of bitches.” he mutters. Marshal growls lowly from his spot at Tyler’s feet, and Tyler can’t help but crack a smile. “You know it.”

There’s a couple of knocks in his shield window and Tyler groans, throws his head back. He drags a hand across his face and yells out, “Unlocked!” Sure enough, he hears the familiar creaking of his ship’s door slowly being pulled open. Marshal runs to the door, his entire body wiggling with excitement. It never fails to make Tyler chuckle how this fucking demon of an animal who never likes anyone, no matter how decent they are, ended up loving one of the biggest jerks Tyler’s ever met.

“Bro, you gotta oil that door lever, that shit is dusty as fuck _._ ” Marchy huffs out as he climbs inside the cabin, immediately getting tackled by the dragon. He’s wearing the standard land uniform, but still has his pager with him, ready to take off surface if it beeps. The bear logo stamp stands out proudly in his jacket pocket, right above his rank stamp: left winger. Tyler considers his own dirty overalls and worn boots, no stamp anywhere, and feels his irritation go up two levels. “—you scaley mutt, watch your claws!”

“That’s what you get for calling the lady dusty, bro.” Tyler tries to joke, and laughs when Marshall successfully gets Marchy to hold him against his chest, like an actual human baby. The sight is ridiculous, Marchy’s barely 5ft9 and Marshall has already hit full adult weight at 3 years old.  “Down.” Tyler orders, and Marshall jumps off, not before landing a couple of wet kisses on Marchy’s nose. “He _luhs_ that nose.”

“Yeah, fuck you and your illegal lizard, rookie.” Marchy mutters, dusting nonexistent dust off his pristine uniform. The endearment makes Tyler cringe and look back at his computer screen. There’s a countdown clock ticking in the alert. When it lands on zero the file will be blocked and Tyler immediately ordered back to HQ for _repercussions_. “So, still working on that shithead approach?” Marchy asks, and ignores the middle finger Tyler gives him. He lays a hand on Tyler’s shoulder, squeezing slightly. The touch last for a second and a half, but it’s enough to make Tyler’s chest seize up.

“I already told you, I’m not applying for a cogger’s team.”                                                                               

“Sure, bro.” Marchy agrees easily. “But you either apply or get sacked. Seems like an easy decision to me, eh?” There’s a pause where Marchy takes the navigator seat next to him. His face grows serious, and Tyler rolls his eyes because he fucking _knows_ Marchy’s about to go Left Winger Marchand on him. “No, don’t do that, Tyler, you’re not a kid anymore.”

“I wasn’t a kid before.” Tyler immediately spits, and Marchy shakes his head. Marshall lays down on the floor between them, tongue darting out nervously as his yellow eyes flicker from one man to another.

“Yes, you were. You were a cocky little shit. Maybe still are. I’m risking a lot keeping you and the missus stationed here, rookie. So’s the Captain. If your log says you’re grounded in Central and your ship is still in Bruins Station, that’s our responsibility. You get that, correct?” Tyler swallows, nods. Guilt flares up his throat, and he has to swallow again. He knows. Of course he knows. He’ll be owing them till the rest of his damned life. Not just for that. For everything. Marchy’s tone softens. “Okay. Good. If you do know, then you understand we’re not doing that so you can reject the bone the league’s throwing at you.”

“You think _this_ is a bone?” Tyler says, pointing vaguely at the alert on the screen. “I’m gonna get stuck with some boring ass team that deepthroats wrenches instead of—” he gets swatted in the back of his head before he can finish. “Fuckin— _ow_! What the hell!”

“It’s better than Corporate.” Marchy quips, but he’s got a smile in the corner of his mouth. As if he doesn’t mirror Tyler’s feelings about coggers. As if Tyler didn’t fly his rookie year constantly listening to similar talk. “Actually, you arrogant git, the only reason you’re not in Corporate _right now_ it’s cus, despite everything else that’s attached, those” Marchy motions at Tyler’s hands “are pretty good, and the League can’t afford to lose ‘em. Getting traded under is better than getting kicked out.”

“Easy for you to say, this isn’t happening to you.”

Marchy’s face hardens again. “No, because I respected the uniform. This isn’t anyone’s fault but yours, rookie.”

 _Fuck_. Well, that hurts. Tyler could argue against it, God knows he has, with Sweeney, with Cassidy. Ultimately, though, it’s the truth. He looks down at his hands, takes a deep breath. “I don’t—I don’t want people to think less of me” he whispers, barely audible, and holds a breath until he feels Marchy’s hand squeeze him on the shoulder again. This time, though, the hand stays there.

“I’m only gonna think less of you if your big fucking head puts one of the best damn shooters I’ve ever flown with behind a desk.” Marchy says. His pager beeps in his belt, and his other hand presses it instinctively. A tiny voice comes curt and low from his right ear, where Tyler knows he has a discreet earpiece. Marchy grunts a couple of _uh-uh’s,_ squeezing Tyler’s shoulder one last time before letting go. He presses a button on the ship’s desk before Tyler can even blink and, sure enough, _Form 341_ pops back up on the screen, still unwritten. Tyler glares at him and Marchy winks. He’d have clocked anyone else that dared to touch his ship without permission.

“Yeah. Uh-uh. Oh, definitely, I’ll tell him. Alright, honeybuns, be right there.” He presses the pager again and the voice fizzles out.

“Bergy?” Tyler asks.

“Bergy.” Marchy confirms, grinning as he always does whenever his Center’s mentioned. “Told me to inform your bitchass that if this piece of junk is still here when we come back he’s gonna light it on fire.”

Uh. Tyler believes that more than he cares to admit. He huffs. “Yeah, yeah, get outta here, man.”

Marchy grins again and looks around the cabin, expression almost melancholic. Probably remembering the sheer quantity of alcohol they consumed in here after that one successful mission Tyler got to celebrate before everything went to shit. “Hey” Marchy says, after a moment “at least you’ll finally get the missus fixed, bro.” 

“She’s fucking perfect, shut up.” Tyler pouts. The gas tank light starts flashing furiously at him and he lands two kicks on the desk to turn it back off. Marchy raises one eyebrow. “Shut. Up.”

They both get up from the seats and Tyler knows Marchy isn’t going to hug him or anything like that, but he still flinches when Marchy raises a single fist for him to bump. He bumps it, and smiles, hoping it doesn’t look as sad as he feels. This is probably the last time they’ll see each other for a long time. Marshall curls himself around Marchy’s legs like he knows it, too. Marchy bumps Marshal’s slimy head with the same fist, and doesn’t even flinch when Marshall bites at his knuckles.

God, Tyler isn’t going to fucking cry. He sits back down abruptly and stares at the info screen, refusing to blink. “Don’t die.” Tyler mutters. He hears Marchy chuckle softly as his steps echo away on the metallic floor of the cabin. Tyler pulls the door lever, and can’t help but cringe at the loud creaking that resounds through the entire ship.

“You’ll be fine. Show those coggers who the fuck won them the war, eh?” Marchy says, and then he’s gone. Tyler closes the door before Marshal can follow him outside. Then he’s alone. Well, not _really_ alone, Tyler thinks, glancing at the dragon. Marshall growls at him from the doorstep, probably upset about having to stay with some human fuckup while there’s much more interesting shit happening outside.

The info screen beeps, catching his attention. He’s got less than an hour to complete _Form 341_ and submit it for approval. Less than an hour to either disgrace his family name (again) or be stuck on the ground for God knows how long. Marchy’s right, though. Tyler didn’t come into this Universe to fucking rot behind a desk. Flying’s in his blood. It’s what he’s meant to do.

Tyler spits out his gum into the trash basket and cracks his knuckles. If he’s gonna get reassigned to a cogger’s team then he’s gonna do what he’s done all his life: he’s gonna turn the tide in his favor. He’s gonna prove to the League he’s incapable of working with anyone that doesn’t share his post. If that means making a cogger’s life a living hell, then be it. Easiest fucking gig of Tyler’s life. Marshal creeps up behind his chair, peeking at the screen curiously, tongue flickering against Tyler’s ear. Tyler shoves at him halfheartedly, but it only motivates Marshall to climb on his lap and settle his head on the desk, waiting. His body is cold and his claws are poking into Tyler’s thighs, but Tyler appreciates his attempt at support.

“Okay. Let’s do this.” Tyler says, and opens _Form 341_ for the fourth time that night. Marshall yawns.


	2. CS

                                           

* * *

 

Marchy has left him one last gas refill on the house, and Tyles tries (and fails) not to get all sentimental about it when Lisa tells him just that. She stares at him from her cubicle, unimpressed, absently shoving a toothpick between her front teeth. “Ain’t you supposed to be at CS right now, Segs?” She asks, typing his data into the computer. Tyler grins toothily, winks. She’s got crumbs on her chin and more stuck to her pink, glittery lips, probably from the empty bucket of fried chicken he can see at her feet.

“But Central Station has no Lisa to fill my tank, now, does it?”

She doesn’t laugh. “What am I supposed to do, here? If I put your name under this fill that ought to raise some eyebrows—”

“That’s why it’s Brad Marchand’s fill, not mine.” Tyler cuts smoothly. Her eyes narrow, and she looks at her computer screen intently, then sighs, seemingly defeated.

“Alright. I guess it’s paid for.” She shrugs. “Pump 3, full tank. Off you go.” Lisa says. Tyler grins and makes kissy noises at her until she shoos him away.

“Still the best lay you ever had, right?” Tyler asks, walking backwards.

This time she laughs out loud, head thrown back. “Oh, you sweet little thing.” she says, in-between giggling. Tyler’s smile melts off his face and he almost trips on his own feet.

“L-little?”

“ _Best lay!_ ” she repeats, and starts laughing again.

Tyler clicks his tongue, turns around and walks faster. “Whatever.”

When he climbs back up his ship, pulling the door lever closed with more force than necessary, Marshal doesn’t even lift his head from his spot on Tyler’s bed, used to his owner’s frequent tantrums. “God damn it, Marshall, not the _bed_!” Tyler yells.

Marshall flicks out his tongue once and curls further into a ball. Tyler rolls his eyes. He sits on the driver’s seat and turns the key. The ship motor comes alive beneath him, making everything inside the cabin shake. The windshield’s shutters open to reveal an empty, dark row of gas pumps ahead, illuminated by a couple of lights suspended from the ceiling and the ship’s headlights. Tyler drives the ship to Pump 3, still steaming with irritation. He watches the automatic hose to come down, latch into his ship’s gas tank, and begin pumping fuel.

It won’t take longer than thirty minutes for the tank to fill. Admittedly, his baby’s not bigger than two old American cars on top of each other. She hits light speed in less than 10 seconds, though. And it’s not like Tyler’s trying to compensate for anything with the size of his ship— _screw Lisa_.

Tyler crosses his arms and glances at the info screen. After he submitted _Form 341_ , answering the questions as terribly as he could without completely shooting his chances of actually getting an M Team to accept him, he instantly received a request to meet whoever the fuck Jordie Benn was at Central. There they're supposed to sign the contract, and then take off to Tyler’s _prison_ for—hopefully—less than 6 months. 6 months was the offered trial time until his post became definitive, and Tyler accepted the offer without batting an eye.

It all happened so fucking fast he didn’t even care to check what kinda team the _Dallas Stars_ were. They're a Mechanic’s team, and are called _Dallas_ fucking _Stars_. A station from Texas is bad enough, but a Mechanic’s team on a station from Texas that calls itself the _Stars_? Jesus H. Christ. He’s almost scared to look at their stats. Tyler cringes just thinking about the fun Marchy’s gonna have with this shit when he finds out.

If he’s gotta be honest, he wasn’t remotely surprised at the instant offer. He’s Tyler Seguin. Nevermind what happened afterwards, he was the youngest Rider with the youngest ship to ever complete a Stanley Mission.

* * *

Deep Space isn’t exactly _boring_ , but it is deep, and dark, and it means Tyler has his ship on autopilot and doesn’t really have anything to do but check the radars and sleep. He can’t fucking sleep for shit, and checking the radars is stupid considering how many times he’s done this route.

Classical rap blasts through the speakers while he does his workout set, trying to pass the time. Marshall runs around, up and down the ship’s levels, hunting for rats that don’t exist anymore.

Light speed makes Marshall nervous. Tyler gets it. He likes having his baby on manual, being able to go fast while steering her route himself, not flashing by an eternal road of black in a stream of light. Tyler was trained for space combat, not space travel. He finishes the sit-ups and lets his head fall back against the floor with a _thunk_. 

Travelling’s probably all he’s gonna do until he proves himself to be useful somewhere else. A dark thought fixates in his brain: Tyler wishes there was still war to fight. He wishes he’d land on Central and immediately get called up because the Enemy were attacking again.

Tyler sits up. He hears Marshall’s claws scratch against the ground as he runs around downstairs, the sound familiar, grounding, and takes a deep breath. His tank top is sticking to his chest, chest heaving. It’s not because of the workout. Tyler knows he’s a selfish bastard, but wishing for _war_ —that’s not—he couldn’t possibly—

The control desk beeps loudly. _30 minutes to destination_ , reads the screen.

Right. Another problem. How is he meant to arrive somewhere he’s already supposed to be? Tyler knows who he has to call. He knew he’d eventually have to call _him_ from the moment he refused to leave Bruins station and sulked in their ship park for a month.

Brownie. He needs to call fucking _Brownie_.

Tyler turns off the music just as Eminem is about to yell about his daughter, again. He puts the numbers into the call panel, kind of annoyed that he still remembers them as clearly and instinctively as he did all those years ago, and doesn’t hesitate to press the _call_ button with a thumb. It’s just fucking Brownie. What’s the worst that can happen? He decides he’s still pissed and leaves Tyler out to dry.

Okay. That’s pretty bad.  

The dial tone echoes through the cabin. Marshall comes running up the stairs to see what it is, growling lowly, but quiets when Tyler holds up a finger to his lips. There’s a static buzz when the line connects, and then a hushed, “You better be fucking dying.”

So, Tyler can check the ‘Still pissed’ box. “Aren’t we all, man?” he says, and swallows at the silence. “I mean, uh, yo! Brownie!”

“What the fuck do you want, Tyler? I’m at work.”

“So, you, uh, you’re still at CS’s port, eh?”

The same silence, a little more static. Tyler shares a look with Marshall, who’s approaching the speakers with caution, like he thinks there’s someone trapped inside.

“No way. Nuh-uh. I don’t know what the _fuck_ you want but I’m not _—_ ” Brownie’s tone changes momentarily “Sorry, sir. Of course. Right on.” Then back to hushed, “I gotta go.”

“I need a favor.”

“ _Fuck_ your favor! The fucking nerve—!”

Tyler panics. “I have your ship, okay? I have your ship.” he says through gritted teeth. Saying the _your_ makes him want to punch something. “I—” Tyler pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes. “I came to return it.” He really, _really_ hasn’t. “Just need you to ghost my landing.”

Static. Static. More static.

Then, “Finally. You better be telling the truth.” Brownie mutters. Tyler opens his eyes.

“I am, man.” he says, and shows Marshall his crossed fingers. _Absolutely not_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like small, quick updates like these could work well? Or not? Tell me in the comments.  
> I decided to add the PTSD tag because it's something this chapter shows (veeeryy vague) signs of. It's going to be a stronger theme with Jamie (!!!!Jamie!!!! I really want to introduce Jamie's character, maybe even do his POV for a chapter. Would that be cool? Tyler's so fun to write, though, cus he's just so -- messy.)  
> Thanks for the comments + kudos! tbh im writing this for my own enjoyment, posting it and having actual irl people reading it is just an added bonus. Really appreciate the love, though.


	3. Baby (interlude)

                                                    

* * *

 

So, here’s what happened: before Tyler’s baby became officially, well, _Tyler’s_ , the ship had been sitting pretty in Brownie Sr.’s garage, displayed as nothing but an “old glory”. Tyler had been making eyes at the ship since he first stepped foot inside the garage, all of 10 years old, Brownie ushering him along because they weren’t even supposed to be there.

Tyler remembers staying over at Brownie’s for the night, anxiously waiting for his best friend’s breathing to go slow in the next bag, just so he could sneak out the house to the garage next door. He’d pace around the ship for hours on end, looking at it from every angle he could think of, until the sun came up. The next day he’d zombie his way through school, with a dumb smile on his face, day dreaming about sleek red lines and half crooked wings.

It’s not that Tyler’s own personal Beginner’s X-Kit wasn’t cool. Every kid that came from a respectable R family had one of those. Tyler’s, in particular, was a limited edition, part of a 30 unit Kit launch that had a special propeller in the yadda yadda, _whatever_. It’d been a gift from the Kit company itself, eager to get its brand under the hands of Paul Seguin’s eldest. Except, right, Paul Seguin’s eldest couldn’t give a rat’s ass about it.

At 12, Tyler had his First Flight, just like every other 12-year-old he knew. It’s a big deal. The first time a young aspiring R takes off without their instructor in the cabin. There’s a whole ritual attached to it, like a first communion with space: a boring speech from the flight school’s director, a boring presentation about the Enemy, lest people forget what they’re sacrificing their lives for, and a 3-hour church service that had Tyler thinking he was going to actually fucking _die_ out of boredom halfway through. Basically, it was hell.

After 40 other kids got up on their brand-new Kits and took their perfectly rehearsed laps, Tyler’s number got called, and he felt—he felt nothing. He took off fine, flied fine, landed fine. He posed for the obligatory picture with his family, holding his first diploma against his chest, officially a Rider In Training, and thought “This can’t be it.”. It was only after his dad pinched his shoulder, hard, that Tyler realized he wasn’t smiling.

A year later, on his 13th anniversary, Tyler managed to get Brownie to tell him where Brownie Sr. hid the keys to the ship in the garage. It didn’t take a lot of convincing, actually. Brownie had been fighting with his dad a lot, and Tyler could tell he was looking for a way to feel like he had the upper hand.

They stole the ship that night. It ran out of fuel while they were cruising peacefully through the sky, and Tyler had to land it on a hill using nothing but the wind, the safety parachutes, and his hands as tools. As soon as it finally stopped short on solid ground, tumbling to the side with a final _thunk_ , Brownie punched him in the face, and Tyler kissed him.

It was their first kiss. It was also their last.

Tyler would end up stealing the ship a lot more times, once every few days, leaving at sunset and returning at the break of dawn. Brownie knew, and he didn’t get it, but he didn’t give a fuck, either. Their friendship mostly survived due to Brownie’s ability to not give a fuck.

Well, Brownie _did_ give a fuck when Tyler got drafted as a Winger on the Bruins R Team, and stole Brownie Sr.'s ship again, this time to register it as his own and disappear for 2 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer broke D: this is the only thing I could type out in my phone before my fingers gave out.  
> Next 1 will be longer and include the first Jamie POV, promise.

**Author's Note:**

> (Basically I was V E R Y bored at a Starbucks, made up an entire Star Trek/Star Wars like Universe and then decided to put hockey teams + respective players in it.  
> Riders are the equivalent of space fighters/soldiers, while Mechanics build stuff and don't fly. These 2 roles are often separated/don't interact, and share a mutual dislike for each other.  
> Please feel free to yell at me in the comments about whatever!!)


End file.
